I’m a liar.
A filthy, no-good, low-down liar. And I don’t think it’s going to change.
I came to this realization the other night when I was having one of my wild and crazy evenings in which I make kids’ lunches for the next day while watching television. On the tube was “Everybody Loves Raymond,” and the episode dealt with Ray vowing no longer to lie to his kids. About anything. I didn’t finish watching the show, but I can only guess that his vow didn’t go far.
I started thinking, and I realized that I lie to my kids all the time. Of course, “lie” is such a harsh word. As a dad, I feel as though I have a bit of a license to, shall we say, embellish the bland reality. Some examples of some of the things my children believe:
1. I have a dragon. My son, Parker, who is four, thinks that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. And why does he think that? Probably because I told him that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. He was having a very tough time going to bed one night, and I told him that if he got really still I would tell him a story. A special story. It went like this:
PARKER: A story about what?
ME: Uh...a dragon.
PARKER: What’s its name?!?!?!?
ME: Uh...Dottie?
PARKER: Can you ride Dottie?
ME: Sure...why not.
PARKER: Do YOU ride Dottie?
ME: Uh...yeah...to work. And Dottie lives on the roof of work.
Unfortunately, that snowball continues to roll downhill and most every night means a story involving Dottie. (Now there is also a Black Knight and a castle. I can’t stop.)
2. Allie used to be a monkey. I am perfectly content with children knowing nothing about how children get here. Fortunately, my wife is part of the team, so she can bring some sense to that situation when the time is right. But to date, I have stuck to my guns, telling Allie, who is 6, that we got her at the zoo, shaved her and cut off her tail. (Parker? Alien drop-off.) Allie thinks I am just kidding her. I laugh and laugh and laugh when she says this. And tell her to go talk to her mother.
3. I have the true powers of magic. And they are often harnessed for such bargaining moments as negotiating bedtime. For example, the other day, a button had come off the pants I was wearing. Being the survivalist I am, I found a safety pin and went on with my day. That night, Parker was (again) not too keen on the idea of bedtime. I made him a deal: If I could make the button on my pants disappear, he would put on his PJs and go to bed. A few magic words and VOILA! I revealed that the button was gone. He was amazed. When I made it appear by his toothbrush, he was almost a little scared at my awesome powers.
4. It’ll fall off. No need to expand on that.
5. Mommy’s got a meeting. Whenever Mommy is leaving, Mommy has a meeting. She can be going shopping. She can be going out with friends. She can be doing pretty much anything on the planet, and Mommy’s got a meeting. Why? Because meetings do not sound fun, and no child wants to get dragged to a meeting.
6. There’s a shot for that. In what may shock and amaze you, my kids are not that fond of getting shots. Well guess what – there is a shot that will make you clean your room, a shot that helps you pick up dirty clothes, and a shot that cures potty mouths (even if they have only risen to the profane level of “stupidhead”). I am sure there are nurses out there who have a hard enough time getting children to sit still for shots that they don’t need us adding to the anxiety by using it as a threat, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
7. You’ll break it. That’s how you get kids to put things down. Everything is breakable. A broom. The dog. A blanket. You name it. But the trick is to make sure that you tell them it’s breakable in a very panicky tone and with your arms stretched out like you’re trying to negotiate a standoff, so they get a real sense of urgency: ‘WHOA WHOA WHOA PARKER!!! Put down the throw pillow – you’ll break it. Now hand it to me gentl....GENTLY!!!”
8. No, Allie is not watching TV. On occasion, we’ll let Allie take the TV for a spin in the evening, in particular when a special show is on (she just loves “The Sopranos”). So when it becomes Parker’s bedtime, he often gets suspicious that someone may be having fun that he is not privy to. “Is Allie watching TV?” he will ask. I tell him no, because apparently telling him “Allie moved” was not nice.
So there you have it. I’m a filthy liar simply for the conveniences of child rearing. I am sure one day they will begin to wise up to my lies, and I will have to come clean. Of course, if they start questioning too much, I will let them know that they are being a little too curious. And there’s a shot for that.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Farewell, pal
Good-bye, old friend.
After 14 long and dedicated years, Montgomery, my faithful dog and companion, has headed to the great big Frisbee-catching yard in the sky.
To say I am a little bummed would be a bit of an understatement.
I got Montgomery at a pound in Alabama when he was a puppy. My girlfriend and I had been a dating a month or so, and for some reason decided, “Hey, let’s get a dog!”
When we got him, it’s almost a wonder he hadn’t been put down. He had rickets. And worms. And someone had tried to trim his ears, leaving them scalloped and scarred. And he was only five weeks old.
When I brought him home, we took the steps necessary to patch him up. Everyone saw him as this disaster of an animal, destined for a lame life. Turns out, he just had a bumpy start.
After a few months, he was healthy as could be. Quick and spry, he always wanted to play. I lived in a fraternity house at the time, and I found that if I left him unattended in my room, he would continue playing without me, and I would come home to find my room redecorated. On one occasion, I found him sitting in the middle of the room chewing on a can of Cheese Whiz he had found, his face covered in cheese. When I walked in, he pushed the can to the side with his paw and refused to look at me. I was laughing so hard that it took me a while to figure out he had taken down a whole bookshelf to get to the cheese.
But don’t get it in your head that he was a bad dog. Quite the opposite. But he had so much energy that I quickly learned he had to run. And I mean “had to.” It was something that was required by his soul.
It also became very evident that he was a natural fetcher. I found this out by accident, when he began bringing things to me all the time. Things that I had thrown out or pitched aside in my room. In no time, a tennis ball was his best friend. Someone suggested I try a Frisbee. First try -- he snagged it.
We became regulars on The Quad at the University of Alabama, Montgomery sprinting underneath his orange Frisbee, leaping high into the air to make the catch every time. He would run to the point of exhaustion. My girlfriend and I would have to make him take a break, walking him to a nearby water spigot to hose him down. A few seconds under the water, a good shake, and time for more running. This, too, was in his soul.
One of his favorite places to go was a place called The Creek. It was some land my aunt and uncle owned outside of town, and Montgomery would spend hours swimming in the creek, chasing sticks and just floating around. He would not stop until we were ready to leave, and he would spend the car ride home exhausted, fast aleep in my girlfriend’s lap.
When I moved to Orlando, it was just Montgomery and me. And he was always there for me. We walked and played in the mornings, at lunch and at night. On weekends, we would just go for strolls, milling around, finding sticks to fetch and play with. And he was never on a leash. Sure, I kept one with me in case of emergency, but I never had to use it. Yes, I know I should have still used it. But Montgomery was different. He never would have strayed from me. Even if he had run after a stick, a whistle and a quick call and he would be right there for me.
When I left Florida, Montgomery came back with me. I was 23, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, moving back in with parents. Real high point in my life. And there was Montgomery. Just happy to be by my side.
A while later, I got married. Oftentimes, my wife has remarked that Montgomery is the reason we are together today. You see, she was that girlfriend years ago who helped me pick out Montgomery, and there were many of times when she realized she was dating a complete and total moron. But she couldn’t leave Montgomery. Me? An admitted dolt. Montgomery? A dog that you just couldn’t help but be attached to.
As our kids came along, Montgomery was getting up there in years. He didn’t jump quite as high or run quite as fast, but you could still see it light up in his eyes when you threw a stick or a ball. He got a little extra spring in his step when he saw it was time to just be Montgomery.
About two years ago, the vet removed some tumors in his mouth that were determined to be cancerous. Without extensive surgery, the tumors would return, most likely in a few months. But I opted not to have more surgery done, as he had been through enough. It took almost two years for the tumors to return, well beyond what anyone expected. Again, I had the tumors removed so that he could eat. They asked me if I wanted tests done. I told them no. I knew what the tests would say.
A couple of weeks later, I noticed a decline. Steep. He wouldn’t eat. He was sluggish. I went out one night and tried to get him to come inside. He stood up slowly, and slinked under the deck. He didn’t want to come with me this time.
I got up the next morning and just knew. I walked outside and found him, peaceful and looking as if he were asleep. My wife opened the upstairs window. “Is he...” She didn’t finish the question. She knew.
The phrase “just a dog” has never been in our family’s speak, and never so much was it clear that morning. My brother-in-law once said, “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.” And that he was. My dog. My good, faithful dog. He was Montgomery. Run fast and jump high, Montgomery. You’ve earned it.
After 14 long and dedicated years, Montgomery, my faithful dog and companion, has headed to the great big Frisbee-catching yard in the sky.
To say I am a little bummed would be a bit of an understatement.
I got Montgomery at a pound in Alabama when he was a puppy. My girlfriend and I had been a dating a month or so, and for some reason decided, “Hey, let’s get a dog!”
When we got him, it’s almost a wonder he hadn’t been put down. He had rickets. And worms. And someone had tried to trim his ears, leaving them scalloped and scarred. And he was only five weeks old.
When I brought him home, we took the steps necessary to patch him up. Everyone saw him as this disaster of an animal, destined for a lame life. Turns out, he just had a bumpy start.
After a few months, he was healthy as could be. Quick and spry, he always wanted to play. I lived in a fraternity house at the time, and I found that if I left him unattended in my room, he would continue playing without me, and I would come home to find my room redecorated. On one occasion, I found him sitting in the middle of the room chewing on a can of Cheese Whiz he had found, his face covered in cheese. When I walked in, he pushed the can to the side with his paw and refused to look at me. I was laughing so hard that it took me a while to figure out he had taken down a whole bookshelf to get to the cheese.
But don’t get it in your head that he was a bad dog. Quite the opposite. But he had so much energy that I quickly learned he had to run. And I mean “had to.” It was something that was required by his soul.
It also became very evident that he was a natural fetcher. I found this out by accident, when he began bringing things to me all the time. Things that I had thrown out or pitched aside in my room. In no time, a tennis ball was his best friend. Someone suggested I try a Frisbee. First try -- he snagged it.
We became regulars on The Quad at the University of Alabama, Montgomery sprinting underneath his orange Frisbee, leaping high into the air to make the catch every time. He would run to the point of exhaustion. My girlfriend and I would have to make him take a break, walking him to a nearby water spigot to hose him down. A few seconds under the water, a good shake, and time for more running. This, too, was in his soul.
One of his favorite places to go was a place called The Creek. It was some land my aunt and uncle owned outside of town, and Montgomery would spend hours swimming in the creek, chasing sticks and just floating around. He would not stop until we were ready to leave, and he would spend the car ride home exhausted, fast aleep in my girlfriend’s lap.
When I moved to Orlando, it was just Montgomery and me. And he was always there for me. We walked and played in the mornings, at lunch and at night. On weekends, we would just go for strolls, milling around, finding sticks to fetch and play with. And he was never on a leash. Sure, I kept one with me in case of emergency, but I never had to use it. Yes, I know I should have still used it. But Montgomery was different. He never would have strayed from me. Even if he had run after a stick, a whistle and a quick call and he would be right there for me.
When I left Florida, Montgomery came back with me. I was 23, trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, moving back in with parents. Real high point in my life. And there was Montgomery. Just happy to be by my side.
A while later, I got married. Oftentimes, my wife has remarked that Montgomery is the reason we are together today. You see, she was that girlfriend years ago who helped me pick out Montgomery, and there were many of times when she realized she was dating a complete and total moron. But she couldn’t leave Montgomery. Me? An admitted dolt. Montgomery? A dog that you just couldn’t help but be attached to.
As our kids came along, Montgomery was getting up there in years. He didn’t jump quite as high or run quite as fast, but you could still see it light up in his eyes when you threw a stick or a ball. He got a little extra spring in his step when he saw it was time to just be Montgomery.
About two years ago, the vet removed some tumors in his mouth that were determined to be cancerous. Without extensive surgery, the tumors would return, most likely in a few months. But I opted not to have more surgery done, as he had been through enough. It took almost two years for the tumors to return, well beyond what anyone expected. Again, I had the tumors removed so that he could eat. They asked me if I wanted tests done. I told them no. I knew what the tests would say.
A couple of weeks later, I noticed a decline. Steep. He wouldn’t eat. He was sluggish. I went out one night and tried to get him to come inside. He stood up slowly, and slinked under the deck. He didn’t want to come with me this time.
I got up the next morning and just knew. I walked outside and found him, peaceful and looking as if he were asleep. My wife opened the upstairs window. “Is he...” She didn’t finish the question. She knew.
The phrase “just a dog” has never been in our family’s speak, and never so much was it clear that morning. My brother-in-law once said, “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.” And that he was. My dog. My good, faithful dog. He was Montgomery. Run fast and jump high, Montgomery. You’ve earned it.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Feeling squirrely
The squirrels have won this round.
OK, so the squirrels have won every round. And I don’t see that changing.
It started when I first moved into my house about six years ago. Like any home in the area, the house came with the requisite infestation of 42 billion squirrels.
Fine enough, I decided. Big fan of animals. Have several. I know lots of people don’t like squirrels. They want to shoot them, trap them, poison them — all kinds of unpleasant demises for the furry critters.
I am not one of those people. Sure, on occasion I motion to a neighbor’s tree, suggesting that it is by far the most comfortable tree in the subdivision, or even tie Payday candy bars into said tree, but for the most part, I just adopt a live-and-let-live approach.
And then they started destroying by bird feeders.
My wife got me several bird feeders recently, because I decided our backyard was not infested with enough wildlife. I already had a couple of feeders out and would also spread seed along the railing to the deck. My wife was not a big fan of this because it looked, well, like I had spread bird seed all around the railing of the deck. It was especially nice after a rain, when the seed would settle into a lovely bird seed paste.
So my wife felt that our backyard sanctuary could be a little more aesthetically pleasing. This could be accomplished, she decided, with several ornate bird feeders strategically placed around the yard. I argued to her that we already had several bird feeders. Big ones. She explained that it was her opinion that a deck should not be considered a bird feeder, and that her opinion on this issue was correct.
The bird feeders she got were very nice, indeed. One was a tall, skinny cylinder with perches all around it. Another was a short, rounded one that had a ring around the bottom for the birds to sit on. The third suctioned right up to the big kitchen window so that you could enjoy your breakfast right there with nature. You, a bird and your heaping plate of eggs. OK, perhaps that could be awkward. Here’s hoping they wouldn’t notice.
Now, before I continue, let me say that I was not trying to outsmart the squirrels. You can’t outsmart the squirrels. Squirrels are the smartest creatures ever. It is widely known that squirrels can solve complex calculus equations, can correctly identify every constellation in the sky, and can rewire your cable so that you only receive Spanish-language televisions. This was an attempt to augment an already robust backyard wildlife sanctuary, squirrels included. All of God’s creatures are welcome. Except catfish. They’re creepy looking.
After I put up the feeders, I waited in anticipation of the first bird to arrive. And waited. And waited. And finally my wife said, “It’s 11 at night, and you put them up about four minutes ago. Did you expect a flock to come swooping in?” She of little faith.
So I went to bed, pretty convinced I would miss a huge convergence upon my new feeders. The next morning I woke up and guess what I saw — you guessed it, an uninvited catfish.
Ha! Little bird feeder humor there. No, what I saw was nothing, because it apparently takes several days for word to get around the bird community that Mike’s Bird Cafe is open.
But after a few days, they began to trickle in. Robins, cardinals, blue jays, and a few others. Nothing massive. Just a bird here and there. And then the squirrels found it. It was like a horde of Vikings raided my backyard. They were swinging on the feeders, jumping from one to the other, chewing at them like crazy. My dogs very nobly tried to defend the yard by either chasing one up a nearby pine tree or barking at something in the complete opposite direction. But there were too many of them. The next day, I went outside to inspect my feeders. The cylindrical one was empty, its contents spread on the ground below. The round one was also empty, holes chewed in the plastic so that it would never function as a bird feeder again. The only one they avoided was the one on the window. I think that is because I had my guard Parker on duty, and I told him to smack his oatmeal-caked hand on the window if a squirrel approached.
So I was somewhat bummed about the way they had treated my feeders, even though I have to say I wasn’t surprised. I went ahead and refilled the cylindrical feeder and left the empty round one hanging up there for some reason that I have yet to identify.
The one upside to all of this is that a few days later, the birds discovered that the ground was covered in seeds. Squirrels are apparently too good to eat seeds off the ground. Also, my dogs seem to care very little for birds, so they let them come and go. The other morning, my kids and I counted seven species and more than 50 birds in my backyard, most of them hopping along the ground, enjoying a squirrel-delivered snack.
I guess I will accept that bird feeders are actually squirrel feeders and not try to have a serene sanctuary in my trees. I’ll continue to spread the seeds around on the deck and the ground and hope the birds continue to visit. I will enjoy the squirrels as they visit, too. Hopefully, though, they will soon catch wind of the Paydays hanging next door.
OK, so the squirrels have won every round. And I don’t see that changing.
It started when I first moved into my house about six years ago. Like any home in the area, the house came with the requisite infestation of 42 billion squirrels.
Fine enough, I decided. Big fan of animals. Have several. I know lots of people don’t like squirrels. They want to shoot them, trap them, poison them — all kinds of unpleasant demises for the furry critters.
I am not one of those people. Sure, on occasion I motion to a neighbor’s tree, suggesting that it is by far the most comfortable tree in the subdivision, or even tie Payday candy bars into said tree, but for the most part, I just adopt a live-and-let-live approach.
And then they started destroying by bird feeders.
My wife got me several bird feeders recently, because I decided our backyard was not infested with enough wildlife. I already had a couple of feeders out and would also spread seed along the railing to the deck. My wife was not a big fan of this because it looked, well, like I had spread bird seed all around the railing of the deck. It was especially nice after a rain, when the seed would settle into a lovely bird seed paste.
So my wife felt that our backyard sanctuary could be a little more aesthetically pleasing. This could be accomplished, she decided, with several ornate bird feeders strategically placed around the yard. I argued to her that we already had several bird feeders. Big ones. She explained that it was her opinion that a deck should not be considered a bird feeder, and that her opinion on this issue was correct.
The bird feeders she got were very nice, indeed. One was a tall, skinny cylinder with perches all around it. Another was a short, rounded one that had a ring around the bottom for the birds to sit on. The third suctioned right up to the big kitchen window so that you could enjoy your breakfast right there with nature. You, a bird and your heaping plate of eggs. OK, perhaps that could be awkward. Here’s hoping they wouldn’t notice.
Now, before I continue, let me say that I was not trying to outsmart the squirrels. You can’t outsmart the squirrels. Squirrels are the smartest creatures ever. It is widely known that squirrels can solve complex calculus equations, can correctly identify every constellation in the sky, and can rewire your cable so that you only receive Spanish-language televisions. This was an attempt to augment an already robust backyard wildlife sanctuary, squirrels included. All of God’s creatures are welcome. Except catfish. They’re creepy looking.
After I put up the feeders, I waited in anticipation of the first bird to arrive. And waited. And waited. And finally my wife said, “It’s 11 at night, and you put them up about four minutes ago. Did you expect a flock to come swooping in?” She of little faith.
So I went to bed, pretty convinced I would miss a huge convergence upon my new feeders. The next morning I woke up and guess what I saw — you guessed it, an uninvited catfish.
Ha! Little bird feeder humor there. No, what I saw was nothing, because it apparently takes several days for word to get around the bird community that Mike’s Bird Cafe is open.
But after a few days, they began to trickle in. Robins, cardinals, blue jays, and a few others. Nothing massive. Just a bird here and there. And then the squirrels found it. It was like a horde of Vikings raided my backyard. They were swinging on the feeders, jumping from one to the other, chewing at them like crazy. My dogs very nobly tried to defend the yard by either chasing one up a nearby pine tree or barking at something in the complete opposite direction. But there were too many of them. The next day, I went outside to inspect my feeders. The cylindrical one was empty, its contents spread on the ground below. The round one was also empty, holes chewed in the plastic so that it would never function as a bird feeder again. The only one they avoided was the one on the window. I think that is because I had my guard Parker on duty, and I told him to smack his oatmeal-caked hand on the window if a squirrel approached.
So I was somewhat bummed about the way they had treated my feeders, even though I have to say I wasn’t surprised. I went ahead and refilled the cylindrical feeder and left the empty round one hanging up there for some reason that I have yet to identify.
The one upside to all of this is that a few days later, the birds discovered that the ground was covered in seeds. Squirrels are apparently too good to eat seeds off the ground. Also, my dogs seem to care very little for birds, so they let them come and go. The other morning, my kids and I counted seven species and more than 50 birds in my backyard, most of them hopping along the ground, enjoying a squirrel-delivered snack.
I guess I will accept that bird feeders are actually squirrel feeders and not try to have a serene sanctuary in my trees. I’ll continue to spread the seeds around on the deck and the ground and hope the birds continue to visit. I will enjoy the squirrels as they visit, too. Hopefully, though, they will soon catch wind of the Paydays hanging next door.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)